She was so goddess-like and beautiful a being, her life one strangely dominant and brilliant series of triumphs, and yet she came to him with such softness and humility of passion, that scarcely could he think himself a waking man.
"Surely," he said, "it is a thing too wondrous and too full of joy's splendour to be true." In the golden afternoon, when the sun was deepening and mellowing towards its setting, they and their retinue entered Camylott.

The bells pealed from the grey belfry of the old church; the villagers came forth in clean smocks and Sunday cloaks of scarlet, and stood in the street and by the roadside curtseying and baring their heads with rustic cheers; little country girls with red cheeks threw posies before the horses' feet, and into the equipage itself when they were of the bolder sort.

Their chariot passed beneath archways of flowers and boughs, and from the battlements of the Tower of Camylott there floated a flag in the soft wind.
"God save your Graces," the simple people cried.

"God give your Graces joy and long life! Lord, what a beautiful pair they be.

And though her Grace was said to be a proud lady, how sweetly she smiles at a poor body.
God love ye, madam! Madam, God love ye!" Her Grace of Osmonde leaned forward in her equipage and smiled at the people with the face of an angel.
"I will teach them to love me, Gerald," she said.